


all alone with your sickness in me

by hotelbooks



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Death, Gen, Heavy Angst, Not Beta Read, Not Happy, Sad, Sad Ending, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:14:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28758672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotelbooks/pseuds/hotelbooks
Summary: Kent Parson has asthma. It gets worse as he ages. He ignores it, as one does.
Relationships: Kent "Parse" Parson & Jack Zimmermann, Kent "Parse" Parson & Jeff "Swoops" Troy, Kent "Parse" Parson & Las Vegas Aces Ensemble (Check Please!), Kent "Parse" Parson & Scraps (Check Please!)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	all alone with your sickness in me

**Author's Note:**

> title from Losing my Life by Falling in Reverse
> 
> !!!!warning!!!!: this does not have a happy ending. Sorry. 
> 
> All rights to the characters go to Ngozi Ukazu, the creator of Check, Please!

Kent has asthma. It came about when he was little, and he has known about it since he started sports. His father thinks it is sports induced, and he may have to agree with him on that. 

He carries an inhaler. Some guys think that he strings it out, and milks his condition for attention and reactions. But if anyone were to ask any of his closest friends, they would say that Kent is probably the toughest person they know.

Not only does Kent carry his inhaler in public, but he will always have it on hand during practices or games. Ever since he had an incident in his rookie year over halfway through the season, no one plays around on the ice when it comes to Kent’s asthma. 

-

_They’re skating gassers from blue line to blue line, and Kent is seeing stars. His breathing is heavier than it should be for someone in such good shape like he is. He’s pale, and is getting lightheaded from the lack of airflow, but Kent isn’t letting that damper his speed. Kent is fast, and he works extremely hard to keep it that way._

_That’s until he’s doubled over on the opposite blue line, kneeling on the ice, trying to catch his breath._

_“Parson! This shouldn’t be difficult for you if you kept in shape during the bye week!” Coach Milner walks on the ice and over to him before blowing the whistle for the next set of gassers._

_Kent physically can’t respond. He just gasps for air, clutching his chest, pointing at Mackie, Trevor Mackenzie, the veteran who was currently housing him._

_Mackie’s eyes widen, and he skates over, fast, despite his exhaustion. “Kent has really bad asthma, and he needs me to get his inhaler from the locker room.”_

_“Parson has asthma?” Coach asks and raises an eyebrow, waving Mackie off to go. “Mackenzie, go get it, fast.”_

_“How did you not know this?” Mackie asks as he speeds off of the ice and into the locker room._

_Quickly thereafter, Mackie comes back and assists Kent with using his inhaler. He guides Kent’s weak hand up to his mouth, and pushes down on the pump. Kent inhales, holds, then exhales, trying to regulate his breathing._

_Kent is slowly able to get back on his skates, and pats Mackie on the back. “Thanks.” Kent nods, and Mackie grins at him._

_“Don’t mention it. You owe me lunch after practice today anyway.”_

_“It’s_ **_your_ ** _turn, you dick!” Kent laughs._

 _“Not anymore.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Coach Milner stalks over to the bench now that Kent is okay, and he looks at the trainer, and then at Kent. “From now on, Parson has to keep his inhaler on the bench. Not the locker room. Can’t risk anything like that during a game.”_

-

It’s easy for Kent to act like everything is fine, when it is not. It’s really an everyday thing for him. Kent’s freshly 27. Jack came out on national television in his cup winning season this past year, and Kent is fine. That’s all people need to hear. He’s fine with it, and happy for his old friend. He’s fine, and he isn’t upset. He did talk to Jack, voiced his support, voiced his concerns. They didn’t really talk about much other than current matters. Nothing about the past. Kent’s fine with that. 

Kent is fine when he coughs up this nasty boogery shit at least three times a day. He’ll look up the name some other time. 

Kent is fine when his asthma continues to get worse.

“Want to watch the Nets game after practice today?” Swoops asks as they walk through the practice arena, towards the locker room. 

“Man, you know I don’t do basketball.” Kent huffs, pushing open the doors as they reach them.

Setting his bag down by his stall, Jeff rolls his eyes and sits down. “Dude, we can’t watch old Yankees reruns again.” Swoops, also being from New York like Kent, is a fan of all of the same teams. Kent happens to be from the Bronx, and Swoops from Westchester. They lived pretty close together, played together in mites, and never realized that until they became friends when Swoops was traded to the Aces from Detroit. 

“Yes we can. We can also watch the Rangers play their matinee game today? Since we play them in two days?”

“It’s all work, no play with you, man.” Swoops jokes, punching Kent’s arm playfully. Kent obviously punches back, but harder, and Swoops whines.

Kent laughs, then coughs and chokes on his own spit. Karma. 

“Gross, man.” Swoops laughs, handing Kent a tissue from his bag. Kent spits into the tissue and looks down at it. The thick, nasty, boogery shit stares up at him.

It’s called phlegm, Kent learned that recently. Gross.

On the ice, they are running drills, not hard skating at all. Yet he’s winded quicker than usual, and he’s somewhat blindsided from how the lack of air hits him like a truck.

Kent is panting, and he is crossing the ice to shoot the puck. He does shoot it, and it goes in, but he is out of breath like never before. He is wheezing, and his body feels weak. He skates to the bench, grabs his inhaler, and takes it. 

Breathe, push through, skate on. It’s just asthma. 

After practice, Kent showers and changes into his street clothes. “Are we heading to yours?” 

“No, man, I miss your cat.” Swoops smirks, passing Kent with his bag over his shoulder.

Kent gasps as he grabs his things and trails behind his friend. “I knew you only loved me for my cat, man. Shit hurts.” He laughs, only to end up in a fit of coughs, doubled over by the locker room door. 

Swoops pauses in his tracks and turns around, raising an eyebrow at Kent. “You chill? Sounds nasty, man.”

“I’m fine. I cough sometimes. Could be the asthma.”

“Or… you’re coming down with something, maybe?”

“Or that.” Kent shrugs nonchalantly, and keeps walking.

“Bro if you’re sick, I don’t want you near me.” Swoops threatens. It’s an empty threat, really, and Kent knows it. Swoops will spend time with Kent even if he is covered in mold, rotting, and smelled like 90 year old cheese. Their bond is that strong. 

“Liar.” Kent smirks, leading the way to Swoops’s car. 

Swoops scoffs and shakes his head. “Parse, I can’t afford to get sick, I swear to God.”  
  
“Blasphemy!” Kent laughs, taking off in a sprint, trying to beat Swoops to his own car. Kent should’ve known it was a bad idea, but he always works off of impulses. Right when he gets to Swoops’s car, he needs to lean on the vehicle for support. Trying to regulate his breathing when he’s coughing is extremely difficult, and his grip on the car door is enough to turn his knuckles white. 

Swoops is quickly at his side, rubbing his back, trying to help him, and Kent feels like he can’t breathe. Which… he can’t, really. At all. It’s extremely fun. 

Kent slowly recovers from his coughing fit and lack of breath, and pats Swoops on the arm. “All good now, Jeffery.”  
  
“Scared the everloving fuck out of me. Also, I hate it when you call me Jeffery.” Swoops looks panicked, which, anyone in their right mind honestly would be if they just watched their friend hack up both of his lungs in a matter of minutes. 

“Then I’ll keep doing it, Jeffery. Drive me home now, will you?”  
  
When they get to Kent’s penthouse apartment, Kent starts to realize that he should really see his doctor about these coughing fits, and how bad his asthma is getting over time. But it isn’t affecting his hockey, so it isn’t really a problem, yet? Maybe once it starts affecting his hockey, he’ll see a doctor. No doubt. He’s just not there yet. Not playing bad yet. 

“What are you making me for lunch?” Jeff asks, sitting on one of Kent’s barstools, petting Kit, who was lounging on top of his counter, trying to swat at the bananas in the bowl. Kent doesn’t like the texture of bananas, so he doesn’t eat them. They’re really only there for decoration, and to put in his milkshakes and smoothies, but not all of them. He dislikes the flavor too, so they’re very rarely included in his recipes. Thinking about it now, they’re just plain pointless for him to have except for Kit to just fight them. 

“Dude just order something. I burned water once in juniors. You aren’t getting shit out of me.” Kent dismisses. He just really needs to lay down. He throws himself onto his couch, and turns on the Yankees reruns. The actual season doesn't start for another two months, so Kent is stuck in January, watching playoff games from this past season to prepare him for March. The Rangers play in a bit. They’re his hometown team, but at the same time, they’re his upcoming opponent, and Kent has to watch that game for film research anyway. 

Swoops groans and gets off of the barstool, and rummages around in Kent’s kitchen drawers, probably to look for the takeout menus he has sprawled all over the place in random drawers. “How about Chinese?”

“Yeah, you know what I like.” Kent hummed from his couch, smiling as Kit jumps up onto his chest and curls up into a ball. She purrs, and he continues to stroke her body, petting her as she relaxes against him full of love and trust.

“You’re paying.” Swoops huffs out, as if it is such an extreme inconvenience for him to be ordering their lunch.

Kent chuckles and rolls his eyes. “Wallet’s on the counter. You know which card to use.”  
  
Two containers of pork lo mein and fried rice later, and Swoops breaches the topic.

“Are you supposed to be winded and coughing from running literally twenty feet?”

“No, man. I guess I’m just having a really bad asthma day.”  
  
“Shouldn’t you see your doctor?”   
  
“When it affects my hockey, then I’ll go.”   
  
“But Parse, it will only get worse, and then it may not affect your hockey right now, but it could hurt you in the long run.” Swoops has that look of extreme concern in his eyes, that Kent doesn’t know if he just dislikes, or if he hates it more than he hates Swoops’s face when he’s angry with Kent. Both are extremely annoying and upsetting. 

Kent decides to brush it off and change the topic. “I’m fine, I promise. The Rangers play in a half hour.”

Jeff gives Kent a look of concern and Kent ignores it. Kent really doesn’t need to be babied by Jeff right now. He doesn’t.

Halfway into the second period of the Rangers versus Panthers game, Kent has to get up, and go into his bathroom to cough up a storm. That storm being more phlegm. A wonderful experience, honestly. It takes a few minutes before Jeff starts to get worried, and knocks on the bathroom door.

“Parser, you alive in there?”

Kent swings open the door after Swoops speaks. “Hey man, just finishing up. I’m not dying in here.” He chuckles, walking past Jeff, into the tv room. Sitting himself down on the couch, Kent thinks to himself. 

_Is this going to become a problem?_

He knows the answer to that. It’s already a problem. But he chooses to ignore it, because he can. Because he can’t be weak, let alone show a weakness. Kent is the best active player in the NHL. This issue would make people think less of him, and he can only see the headlines now.

**First, Jack Zimmermann is Gay, and now Kent Parson has Career Ending Asthma? What Next For The Attention Seeking Pair?**

Dramatic, and Jack is bi, but honestly realistic, knowing Deadspin.

**Kent Parson’s Asthma Gets the Best of the Hockey Pest.**

Rude, but realistic.

**Kent Parson is Not Who He Used to Be.**

Duh. 

**Kent Parson is Faking it.**

Ouch. 

**Aces Captain Kent Parson is Weak.** **  
**

**Kent Parson is Weak.**

**Kent Parson is Weak.**

_Weak._

Now Kent’s just being dramatic. He needs to pull himself together. 

The last thing that Kent wants is for this asthma to ‘take him down’ or end his career. Kent wants to be playing for a long time, but his asthma may prevent that.

**——————————**

Kent tries not to worry Swoops. That night he came over, Kent had to step away to cough. Kent thinks he could be getting sick, but at the same time, he doesn’t feel sick. The last thing Kent needs is someone doting on him, and waiting to see what was going to happen with him next. He was already closely monitored by the team doctor. He didn’t need Swoops playing mom. He just didn’t. 

Holding Kit in his arms, Kent paces his apartment, thinking about what could possibly happen to him if he didn’t talk to someone about his asthma. It couldn’t get that bad, could it? That’s insane.

They already played the Rangers and won, and Kent was fine. Then they played the Oilers and lost in overtime, and Kent almost passed out before the 3 on 3. So his asthma is spotty, apparently, and chooses whenever it wants to make Kent’s life a living hell. 

But tomorrow, tomorrow is a whole new beast. The next morning, they’ll play Providence. Kent plays Jack. Kent says he’s over their past and how he was treated and how he treated Jack, but whenever they play the Falconers, Kent shuts down and goes full pest. He practically blacks out during the game and ignores his priorities, and just plans on making it as difficult for Jack as possible. Kent’s going to be playing hard, he has to, so that he can show people that his talent isn’t a fluke, and he is a better player without Jack, **especially** against him. 

Kent deserved to go first. He didn’t go first because he was the backup option, the second option, second best. He he deserves to be in Vegas.

At least, that’s what he tells himself. 

Loud knocks on his apartment door breaks him out of his daily self-worth reminders. So much for that. Kent strolls over, Kit still snuggled against his chest, and casually opens the door, it was probably Swoops. 

“Dude, you have a key.” Kent says without even looking.

“Euh, I’m pretty sure I don’t.” A familiar voice answers, and Kent wants to jump out of his skin and jump into a busy highway.

Kent looks over at his old friend. His features just how Kent remembers them. Icy blue eyes stare blankly right back at him. 

“No, no you don’t. I thought you were someone who actually enjoys my presence. My mistake.” Kent spits at him, yet still moving out of the entranceway so that Jack can walk in. When he does and shuts the door behind him, Kent sets Kit down on the floor, and rubs his hands over his face, taking a deep breath. “Why are you even here, Zimmermann?”

Jack drops his hand down for Kit to sniff, and she does, and then bats his hand out of her face with her paw. Jack winces and Kent rolls his eyes. “Naughty, Kit.” He sighs, moving her away. “Are you just, not going to answer?”

“I don’t really know, Kenny. You called after the cup win, and it was nice of you, so I thought maybe… maybe we could talk things out?” Jack says in return, apparently with the full audacity to call Kent the name he hasn’t heard in eight years. “We didn’t really get to talk since I was so deep into the media scrum.”

“No, we didn’t. I’m assuming you don’t know the kind of media I went through either?” It’s a little selfish of Kent to bring up his own hardship, while fully knowing what Jack went through, but Kent is allowed to be a little selfish sometimes. 

“Bittle and I tried to stay under the radar.” 

Kent scoffs and takes his hat off, runs his fingers through his hair, and then smushes it back onto his head. “Figures. Beat reporters wanted my input on your ‘situation’, as if it was actually a situation, dramatic, and if I knew about it back in the Q. They basically wanted to know if you ‘infected’ me. They wanted me to out myself and shit like that.”

“Kenny, I’m so-”

_Don’t… don’t do it Kent. Don’t be a dick. You’re better than that._

“That’s not even half of it, Jack.” Kent interrupts, and Jack winces, making Kent sigh. “They dug up old pictures from the Q. Of us at parties, or us standing ‘too close to be platonic’. They’re trying to prove the rumors from the Q. They aren’t wrong, but they were up my ass the entire summer, just trying to see if I have a ‘secret boyfriend’ or if I’m heartbroken over you, or some shit. I spent most of my teenage years and all of my early twenties heartbroken by you, Zimms, I wasn’t going to let the media do that to me again.”

“I’m sorry that we put you through that.” Jack says with a frown. “Are you okay now?” Kent sighs for what might be the fiftieth time. 

“I’m fine. A little warning would’ve been nice though. I’m just glad that you guys are okay. Sorry I just made it all about me… just had to, y’know… get it off my chest.” 

“It was more of a heat of the moment kind of thing? I didn’t plan on coming out that night. I’m really sorry. And it’s okay, I understand.” 

Kent nods and looks at Jack with pursed lips. “Yeah I guess I get it. I’m sorry you had to have the official talk with the media during your cup conference. That sucks.”  
  
“Oh, that was fine. The guys were there… it was… good. Can we… talk about what happened at the kegster you came to, Kent?”   
  


Kent nods. _Fuck._ He knew it was coming, he just doesn’t want to face the music about how terrible he is.

“We might want to sit, then.” Jack hums, and Kent leads him to the couch. They both sit down at a safe and comfortable distance apart from each other, and Kent starts talking.

“Listen, it was wrong of me to come to your college party to recruit you for my team, and what I said about your team was really fucked. I just wanted to play together again, y’know? I just wanted my friend back.”

Jack shakes his head slowly and gnaws on his lip. “I get your reasoning, but you never lost your friend? But what you said once I said no, that was uncalled for. The shit you said about me? That wasn’t okay, Kenny. It really hurt me.”

“I lost my friend when he overdosed, Jack. I found you on that bathroom floor, called for an ambulance, and never got a call back. I got ghosted for _saving_ you. I got ghosted for hauling your ass to the _hospital_. I lost what was supposed to be the most fun years of my life to stress, heartbreak, and fear. I _never_ got a call telling me that you were okay. I visited you in the hospital three times, and was told to _leave_! I didn’t even know if you were alive or not. I went to Vegas alone, as an eighteen year old _kid_ , and never got paired with a veteran, until Mackie stepped up, because no one ‘happened to have a spare room’. Which was a lie, they _all_ did, but no one wanted to take in a rumored party animal with a bad attitude who’s best friend was allegedly addicted to cocaine, and who probably sabotaged his best friend slash boyfriend so that he could get the number one spot according to the media. No one wanted to take in a psychopath. They believed the _rumors_ **,** Zimms. They didn’t even _think_ to ask the kid who just lost his best friend. Thankfully Mackie took me in and ignored all of that bullshit, but I had to wait a few months in a hotel before he had the balls to step up.

They didn't even _try_ to see if I was okay. They just assumed I was crazy, and ignored me. So I became reckless, stayed silent, and spent every single one of my nights for four years, yes, even after I became captain, calling you, getting no response, and trying to prove myself to my team that I wasn’t a coke addicted psychopath. Do you know how alone I felt?” Kent chokes out, nearing tears, and slowly losing oxygen. “I felt like shit, Jack. And I know it isn’t an excuse for how I treated you that night, because I treated you so fucking badly, but I was fucking hurt. I was hurt, and I said shitty things. I’m really sorry about that. That doesn’t deserve forgiveness. The shit I said was disgusting.” Kent pants out, his breathing slightly labored from his rant. 

“Kenny, fuck, I’m sorry too. I just… I felt like I was burdening you with my baggage. I didn’t want to see you because I was jealous that you had everything I was afraid of, yet wanted, and it was wrong of me. I isolated myself from my past, because I was reminded of how bad of a headspace I was in. I didn’t know you found me. I’m so sorry I did that to you.” Jack frowns, pulling Kent into a tight hug. A hug that speaks volumes. More than words ever could.

Kent buries his head into Jack’s chest, and begins to sob. The hug is everything he missed from his best friend. It’s closure. It’s peace. 

“I’m sorry too.” Kent whispers in response.

“Can we please try to be friends again?” Jack asks, sniffling gently, trying to conceal his tears. Kent nods in response. He doesn’t have the ability to piece together a sentence.

The moment gets ruined when Kent’s asthma decides to act up, and Kent starts coughing through his tears and gasping for air. _Just peachy._ He pushes away from Jack’s hug, and stands up to quickly go to his kitchen to grab his inhaler and a napkin. He coughs into the napkin, and searches the drawers for his inhaler, only to see Jack holding it out in front of him. 

Kent quickly grabs it from his hands while still coughing, and then takes it. 

_Inhale, hold, exhale._

It helps for the time being, and then Kent is sent into another coughing fit. Jack looked stressed and nervous. He knows that Kent has asthma, he just didn’t know that it was something that was as bad as it is. 

Kent took his inhaler again, and felt better. That was the first time he had to take it twice in one standing. 

“Thanks for finding it.” Kent whispers to Jack, his voice hoarse.

“You left it on the coffee table. You okay? I didn’t know asthma was a thing that progressively got worse?”  
  
“Me neither. Apparently it does.” Kent chuckles softly and goes to throw out his napkin. When he does, he looks down at his shaky hands and sees a red stain on the white napkin. That should be phlegm, not blood. Kent starts to get anxious, so he quickly crumples up the napkin and tosses it into the garbage, exhaling deeply. “That felt good.”

“The asthma attack?” Jack asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No, asshole, the talk.” Kent breathes out a laugh, and gives Jack another hug. “I’m glad we got to do that. Thank you for coming over.”

  
“Anytime, Kenny.” 

“But… how did you get my address?” Kent questions, punching Jack’s shoulder playfully.

Jack smiles and lighty shoves Kent in return, shrugging. “Let’s just say your defenseman, Karl Lastinen, owed me a favor.” 

“What did you do for Lasty that makes him owe you a favor?” 

Jack smirks with a small laugh and shakes his head. “None of your business.”  
  
“Oh god. Oh _god_ **.** I don’t even wanna know. Get out of my apartment. There’s a child living here, you disgusting little shit.”

“The child being your cat?”  
  
“Dude, she can hear you. That’s my baby you’re talking about.”   
  
Jack laughs and pulls Kent into a headlock, starting the playful wrestle between the two. Kent really expects the rest of the night to end in fighting, but is pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t.

Saying goodbye to Jack and scheduling dinner after their game tomorrow is something Kent hasn’t experienced in a long time. It’s a good feeling to know that they don't have to hate each other anymore. They’re trying to be friends again, and Kent hopes to every god out there that it stays this way.

Kent goes to sleep with a smile on his face, a warmth in his heart, and on his head, because that is where Kit likes to lay down when she sleeps. 

**——————————**

Despite Jack and Kent having their talk, Kent is still nervous for the game. He wakes up in a cold sweat, shivering, with a tight clenching pain in his chest. 

He doesn’t know if it’s just nerves, or if Jeff was right, and Kent really is coming down with something.

He stands up and feels dizzy. Not good. He has to be fine for the game tonight, so he walks it off. He walks slowly to the bathroom, and stares at himself in the mirror. He looks sickly, and it is obvious that despite eating like a professional athlete (which is quite a lot) and working out every day, Kent looks like he hasn’t gained a pound of weight and muscle. His eyes have bags underneath them, and stick out on his face like bruises. He looks awful, and feels disgusting just looking at himself. He hasn’t looked into the mirror or at his phone camera in so long, and he doesn’t recognize who is staring back at him. 

He grips the sink tightly, so tight that his knuckles go white, and his hands begin to ache. Who is staring back at him? This is throwing Kent for a loop, and he doesn’t enjoy it. The world around him doesn’t feel real. He’s just dreaming, he doesn’t look like this. He doesn’t.

Kent is a huge self image guy, and takes pride in his physique and his looks. But as of right now, he feels the complete opposite. There is nothing positive about how he looks right now. Nothing at all. 

He goes through his morning routine with an empty head, and he is basically on autopilot. He doesn’t talk to anyone during morning skate, and everyone just takes it as his usual moodiness when it comes to playing Jack. Swoops leaves him alone, as if he knows what’s actually going on with Kent. He wouldn’t be surprised if Swoops actually managed to figure it out. 

The rest of the day goes through a blur, and Kent has about 4 asthma attacks in the span of the few hours of the morning post skate. He skips breakfast, but has a protein shake with his sandwich for lunch. 

He ends up throwing up both an hour later. 

He coughs up phlegm on and off for ten to fifteen minutes before knocking back a benadryl, setting his alarm, and knocking out for his pregame nap. 

4pm rolls around, and Kent wakes up feeling worse for wear. He trudges into his closet, shrugs off his clothes, and sleepily shoves his body into his suit and tie. He stumbles around and ends up in his bathroom, brushes his teeth, washes his face, and styles his hair for the walk into the locker room. 

He refuses to look into the mirror, knowing he wouldn’t like what he sees. Not one bit. 

_On my way to your place, pls be downstairs. Ik you don’t wanna be late_. 

Kent reads the text from Swoops, sighs, and gives Kit a hug and a kiss goodbye. On his way down in the elevator, Kent almost falls asleep. His lungs feel bruised, and his body is exhausted. 

Climbing into Swoops’s car, Kent has a one-track mind, and it is to stay awake and upright so that Swoops doesn’t think anything is wrong. 

“What’s got you so on edge today? Is it playing the Falcs?” Swoops obviously has to ask, that douchebag. 

“Yeah. Jack and I talked it out, but… it’s still freaky.” Kent rasps, his voice gravelly and thick from sleep and hours of painful coughing. 

Swoops hums with a nod, and gets them into the arena. 

Kent will be fine. 

**——————————**

Kent is not fine. 

It happens in warm ups. Because, of course, Kent doesn’t get a chance to play yet. 

He steps onto the ice, and the sudden change of weight placement makes Kent get nauseous. He does his lap, and can’t stay upright. So he skates towards the bench like his life depends on it. 

But he gets winded. His first order of business is to cough, because he gets the tickle in the back of his throat. Yet, the pressure in his chest makes it hard for him to breathe, and the lack of oxygen makes him nauseous. A lovely vicious cycle for Kent. 

Kent’s mind begins to wander. _What is wrong with me? Why can’t I go two hours without coughing? How bad will this get? When will it end? Why is this happening?_ He throws himself into a panic, and starts to pant. 

_Smart move, douchebag._ Kent thinks, beginning to cough. He feels the thickness of the phlegm in his throat, and spits onto the ice. Yet, what hits the ice isn't spit. It’s blood. His blood hits the ice, and he wasn’t hit, and he isn’t injured. He coughed up blood, again. What is happening to him?

A wave of nausea hits, and Kent’s vision goes blurry. His own gloved hand looks like three different hands. If he takes one step, he is eating absolute shit. 

He doesn’t notice someone is at his side until it’s too late, his legs give up on him, and he is in someone's arms, being lowered to sit on the ice. 

Kent continues to cough and wheeze, trying to breathe, and his ears are ringing, yet his teammates look like they are talking to him. His inhaler gets shoved into his face, and Kent bats at it with his free hand, it hits the ice and slides away. It hasn’t been helping. There's no point. He can’t hear anything from anyone, yet he can tell the arena is quiet, because the ice isn’t vibrating how it was a few minutes ago. 

“Kent! Can you hear me? _Kenny_?” Jack’s voice shouts, and Kent can feel himself get shaken. 

“I hear you now.” Kent speaks groggily in return to Jack, barely getting his breathing under control, and spitting more blood onto the white ice, staining it with the pigment. 

Jack visibly winces, looking down at Kent with sad eyes. “This isn’t good, Kenny.”

“Get me onto my feet, I can play.” Kent whispers, grasping at the boards, and at Jack’s arms, trying to pull himself up. 

“Kenny, there’s _no way_ your team will let you play right now.” 

“You’d be surprised what they let me do.” Kent sighs, grabs his inhaler from where he knocked it onto the ice, and takes it. “See? Fine.” He wheezes out, clearly pretending, but no one points it out. “I’m chilling. And I’m playing.” 

“Kenny!” Jack shouts after Kent, who finishes warm ups, leaves the ice, and somehow everyone, except Jack, Scraps and Swoops, accepts it as normal. 

In the locker room, he gets cornered into his cubby by his two alternates. 

Swoops starts the conversation, “What the fuck was that? You just have a full blown asthma attack and-”

“Cough up blood,” Scraps adds.

“Yeah, you cough up blood, swat away your inhaler, and then just… get up, finish warmups, and skate away like nothing happened?” Swoops is flaming, Scraps’s arms are crossed, and Kent goes pale in the face. 

Kent chuckles softly and shakes his head. The only way he can get through this is by convincing them that a lie is the truth. He’s fine. He doesn’t even really know what the truth is. “I didn’t get enough sleep, and I’ve been pretty dehydrated lately. So my throat is dry and scratchy, and any form of asthma attack just leads me to cough up blood from my throat just being stripped. Drinking water burns like fucking hell because of how stripped and dry my throat is, but I’m working on it.” The last sentence isn’t a total lie at all honestly. 

Swoops and Scraps just give him the blankest stares he’s ever seen. 

“Bullshit, but whatever, Kent. Every time I try to give a fuck about you and voice my concern, you brush me off. So fuck you, Parse, honestly. Keep on avoiding me.” Swoops spits out. His words bite, and Kent looks up at him with wide eyes. 

Scraps narrows his eyes at Kent, and shakes his head. “Not good, Parse. Let friends care for you. That’s what we here for. We are A’s.” The Russian speaks monotonously, and Kent’s mood drops even farther down than he thinks to be humanly possible. 

They both walk away, and Kent is left alone in his stall, to think through everything said to him. Speechless, Kent stands on his skates and walks into the bathroom, and looks at himself in the mirror. Something he has been avoiding since this morning. He stares at himself, the sunken eyes, the paleness, how skinny and small he looks. He looks like a walking corpse. 

Kent grips the sink, and he feels that if he holds it any tighter, it will break off of the wall. His chest convulses as another coughing fit wracks his body. He makes sure that he coughs over the sink, so that any blood he coughs up ends up into the white ceramic bowl, washing away because of the flowing water. Once the coughs die down, Kent turns around and leaves the bathroom calmly, trying to make his teammates perceive that he is okay. 

Being that he is the Captain, Kent is expected to speak before the game. He has to, despite sounding rough. “Alright boys, we gotta get a good streak going here, we have a little bit of time before the all star break, but every game counts, and we want to be in a good position by then. We’re going strong, and we gotta keep it that way. Starting lineup is me, Swoops, Laggy for the front line, Scraps and Kilgo for the back end, and Pokes in net. Let’s get this win.” He nods, going to his stall, putting on his helmet and gloves. He grabs his stick, and leaves the room to take his position in the hall, waiting for his team to exit behind him. 

Kent gets to center ice after the anthems, matched up with Zimms for the faceoff. 

“Why the _hell_ are you playing after what happened in warm ups?” Jack asks before the ref drops the puck. 

Kent stares him down and shrugs. “I told you I’m fine. Just an asthma attack. My inhaler’s on the bench.” 

Jack drops it, knowing that there is no use arguing with Kent. 

The game goes… pretty smoothly for Kent. Despite feeling weak, almost as if he is trapped in a room that is exactly an inch taller than his height, and an inch wider than his body and he can’t lay down and rest, and can’t escape. But they won, so Kent is _semi-okay_. 

His legs feel like they are spaghetti, and his head feels cloudy. His chest hurts. His chest _really_ hurts. But he is okay. He’s fine. After he gives the guys his post game speech, he showers, changes, and walks out towards the visitors locker room. 

With no regard to personal space or privacy, and knowing that their talks were probably over, Kent just shoves his way into the room. 

“Zimms-”

“Jesus Christ, Parson, why are you here?” Someone that wasn’t Jack speaks. 

“Who let him in?”

“Privacy, man!”

“Zimmboni, can banish little rat if need.” 

Multiple Falconers voice their displeasure to Kent being inside the room.

“That hurts, Mashkov. I’m not here to cause problems. Zimms, we still on for dinner?” Kent rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. 

Jack appears from where his cubby is, and looks Kent up and down. “Are you sure that’s smart? You look like hell.” 

“Yeah, I’m sure. Swing by my apartment when you’re ready, and we’ll get takeout, I’ll leave the door unlocked.” Kent nods and turns on his heels to leave. “Text me when you’re on your way.” 

Kent leaves the building then remembers that Swoops drove him to the arena, and since Swoops is mad at him… no ride. He calls a cab. 

When he gets back to his apartment, he drops his stuff by the door, leaves his front door unlocked like he said he would, and sits down on the floor, welcoming Kit into his lap. She nuzzles his hands, and settles down in his hold. 

She jumps up with a start when Kent starts coughing. His chest tightens, and Kit runs away from him and hides under the couch. Kent continues to basically hack up a lung, the chest pain and the coughing practically immobilizes him. He can’t get up from his spot on the ground to grab his inhaler. Too far from the napkins, so he ends up coughing into his hands, leaving trails of blood on them . 

After what feels like three hours, Jack enters his apartment, to see Kent on his hands and knees, hands bloody, and coughing hysterically. There was a small puddle on the floor from the blood that dripped off of his hands. 

“I texted you and you never answered, so I assumed to just walk in and-” Jack paused, seeing the situation in front of him. “Kenny, what…” Jack’s breathing begins to pick up. He barely centers himself, but he grabs his phone from his pocket and calls 911. None of this sits well in Jack’s gut. It feels like reverse déjà vu to Kent. 

**——————————**

Kent regains consciousness and mobility inside of a hospital room. He doesn’t remember ever losing his consciousness, and he doesn’t remember being taken to a hospital. All he knows is that he got home, and couldn’t stop the onslaught of coughing. 

Poor Kit. She’s probably terrified. 

“Fucking hell, Kenny, how could you not see that this wasn’t just asthma?” Jack whispers, not knowing that Kent was awake. 

“Zimms?” Kent whispers, his throat hoarse, feeling pain when he spoke. 

Jack gasps and sits up from his chair. “Thank God, you scared me half to death, Kenny. Did you really think asthma could do this to you?”

“I don’t… I don’t know, Zimms.” He whispers, rubbing his face with his freshly blood-free hands. They must’ve washed him. He also has an IV in his left arm, and oxygen tank breathing tubes in his nose. Interesting. He wants to tug them out, and Jack can obviously tell. 

“Don’t… don’t pull them out.” Jack warns, and shakes his head, and Kent yanks his hand away. “I called your father, Kenny. He was worried sick about you, and said you haven’t been answering his calls.”

“For good reason.” Kent frowns and looks at Jack sadly. “I didn’t want him to worry.” 

“That’s not a good reason. That made him worry more. Especially seeing you play after that incident at warmups? I’d be freaked too.” 

Kent looks off into the distance, knowing Jack is right. “Did you text Swoops? He’s mad at me… he probably won’t care, honestly.” 

Jack looks at Kent with those big, sad, blue eyes, and shakes his head. “He cares about you Kenny. I wouldn’t count him out. But I’m gonna get a doctor in here, because… because you need to hear this shit from them.” He gets up and presses the button to call for a doctor, and opens the door. 

Kent is nervous. Jack looks like he is flooded with anxiety, looks like he’s keeping it together for Kent, and yet, it just washes over Kent as well. 

When the doctor enters the room, Kent can tell it just isn’t going to be good news. 

“I’m just going to get straight to the point, Kent, because I know you would prefer that. I don’t know how you have managed to ignore this for so long, but you have cystic fibrosis. This is a mainly genetic disorder, meaning that someone in your bloodline had to have had it in some way. This disorder affects the cells that produce mucus, sweat, and digestive juices, causing them to become thick and sticky. 

They then block up ducts and tubes in your lungs and digestive system, causing life-threatening problems. It prevents proper weight gain and loss, affecting people differently, if you have noticed rapid weight loss lately. It also weakens your immune system, and can cause you to get sick easily, which is why you ended up here. What you have seen as asthma, is a life-threatening disorder that gave you pneumonia the other day. Assuming with how high your pain tolerance is, you have somehow managed to ignore it. You really shouldn’t have played today. Or at all these past few years. I don’t know how you did it, Kent. But you can’t do it anymore. It is at the point where you may need a transplant soon, this stage is career-ending. I know that isn’t what you want to hear, but this disorder isn’t curable yet.”

Kent swears he feels his heart stop. Regardless of how long the doctor spoke, that is a ton of information to take in. Kent has a _genetic disorder_. 

“My mom died when I was a kid… do… do you think?” Kent whispers, his eyes beginning to tear up when he looks over at the doctor, and then Zimms. 

“Possibly.” The doctor replies. 

Kent feels like he’s drowning. “I think I’m going to need a moment.” His voice is thick, and heavy with emotion. 

The doctor nods, and leaves the room to give Kent space. 

“This isn’t real.” Kent sniffles, shaking his head. 

“Kenny, it’s all too real.” Jack answers. 

Kent wants to throw something, or maybe throw up. Either way, he feels like he’s going insane. “No! No, I’m going to wake up soon. This isn’t real! I can’t be _dying_ , I can’t need a _lung transplant_. This isn’t happening to me.” The tears slowly begin to drip out of his eyes, and he shakes his head more. “This isn’t happening.” 

“I’m so sorry.” Jack frowns, reaching his hand out for Kent to grab, which he does. “You don’t deserve this much pain.” 

Kent sobs on the spot after that. This is too much. This is all too much. 

Waking up in a hospital doesn’t get easier for Kent. He’s been in there for a week. The fans know nothing, and Kent is the one that has to make the statement, not the Aces. Management said that Kent has to release the statement, whether it is through an Instagram or Twitter post, Kent has to tell them himself. Kent also hasn’t seen Swoops once. He also hasn’t spoken to him since that fight. Kent feels horrible. 

Kent also feels sick, not only on account of his illness, of course. Jack had to leave a few days ago, couldn’t take too many days off from his own team. Kent understands that. Doesn’t make being alone in the hospital while his team that he can’t play for anymore is on a roadie, while he is dying in a hospital bed, while his entire team was unaware of what was going on any easier. 

His coaches know, management knows, but Kent isn’t allowed to tell the team until his public statement is released, for whatever reason.

So Kent gets to writing.

**——————————**

**The Players’ Tribune**

**Kent Parson**

Las Vegas Aces

Lungs are a human’s prized possession. Some choose to destroy them by smoking, other’s either don’t get the choice, or they have perfect lungs. Unfortunately, I didn’t have that option. 

I’ve had asthma my whole life. Well, the majority of it. After playing hockey for a few years, my father and I decided to go to the doctor when I began to have breathing problems after activity. My pediatrician diagnosed me with asthma, and I carried around an inhaler for years to solve my long coughing attacks, and moments where I struggled to breathe. Life was simple, all of my issues were solved through a medicated pump that I inhaled before, during, and after activity. 

And yet, this so-called asthma was a (quite literal) weight on my chest. It made my favorite things an absolute hell to endure, and would continue to get worse as I aged. Honestly, I thought it was normal for that to happen, but it apparently is not. 

This so-called asthma led me to be out of breath after a ten yard sprint. This so-called asthma led me into coughing fits about seven or more times a day. This so-called asthma gave me illnesses, such as pneumonia or bronchitis, pretty often. This so-called asthma made me cough up blood. This so-called asthma made me feel pain that I have never felt before, and I have been playing hockey for twenty-one years. I thought that the worst pain I could feel would be a concussion, or a leg injury. 

As a professional hockey player, I take a lot of things for granted. With an upbringing like mine, you may think that is kind of impossible. My mom passed away when I was five, due to causes that were unknown to me at the time. We weren’t the best off when it came to money, my father had to work three jobs just to get me a babysitter, to pay our rent, and to help me continue with hockey, since I have loved it so much and was good at it. My grandparents weren’t around to assist with the living situation, or the babysitting, or else my dad would have worked one less job. I kind of grew up angry with my dad because he never had any time for me, but I now realize that there wasn’t much he could’ve done to fix that. It wasn’t his fault, nor was it mine. It was just unfortunate. I didn’t have much of a childhood, where I had access to cartoons and friends and such. Though I was such an outgoing kid, I was able to make friends fast. I just couldn’t keep them, because I would ditch them for hockey, or because my dad didn’t have a car to drive me to hang out with them since he commuted to the city every day and couldn’t spend money on a car when he had to buy a train ticket or replenish his metrocard. Or even because I had to work once I hit fourteen. Babysitting here and there, or as a busboy at my local pizza shop after school and in between hockey.

Getting drafted to the QMJHL was a blessing. Rimouski was a dream, and becoming best friends with Jack Zimmermann was special. 

The Zimmermanns didn’t treat me like the poor kid from the crappy side of the Bronx. They treated me as if I was another son. I was welcomed into that family with open arms. Jack and I billeted together, and then I stayed with him during the breaks and the offseason, I would practically live at his house, train, and improve. I sent my dad every paycheck I made, even though it may have been small as hell, he deserved it more than I did. 

Making the NHL was… a whirlwind of emotions. Everything with Jack went down, and it was difficult. I won’t go into detail, because that isn’t my story to tell, but I fully expected him to be up there accepting that Aces jersey. Walking up on that stage without my second set of parents, and my best friend, was awful. My father couldn’t make it up to Montreal for the draft, and I was a wreck. Pulling that jersey on and smiling for the cameras made me feel like I was going to throw up. After my time was up on the stage, I went to a secluded area and cried, then went into a coughing fit. My agent, Natalie Kohsten, whom the Zimmermanns initially paid for (and I will be forever indebted to them for that because she is the best), found me and made me take my inhaler, and then made me call my father. 

After being in the NHL for a year, gaining the captaincy my sophomore season, and making more of a salary, I was able to buy my dad a house, and then eventually paid off his debts and mortgage in my fourth season. It was the most rewarding thing I have ever done, giving him a card for Christmas that had evidence of it being fully paid inside. I wrote, “this is for everything you have done to get me here” inside the card. I have never seen my father cry until that day, and then I cried with him. We held each other in grateful silence, and it was painful and sweet. But now that I have an abundance of it, I take money for granted.   
  
I took my lungs for granted. 

I took my life for granted.

My first few years in the NHL… those weren’t pretty. Sure, I was humble, but I partied my butt off. It makes sense, you know? I didn’t get much of a childhood or teenage years, dedicating my life and my lungs to hockey so that I could make it this far. So I made up for that loss through partying, clubbing, and getting trashed at my teammates houses. 

I was careless, and had many instances of intoxication almost to my breaking point. I was lucky I never had to get my stomach pumped. I had too many near death experiences that I completely disregarded and ignored that stemmed from years of depression. I was very, very careless. 

Then I met Swoops. Jeff Troy. That man and I clicked the second he touched down in Vegas after being traded from Detroit. I picked him up, as any good, seasoned (four years in the league) captain would do, and we spent there on out basically in each other’s pockets. Swoops grounded me. He’s a couple of years older than me, and as he would say, filled with a lot more wisdom. He mellowed me out, and gave me a sense of sanity to hold onto. We learned everything about each other. He is yet another thing that I took for granted. 

I didn’t tell Swoops how bad my asthma got.

I didn’t really tell anyone. I regret that now.

If I had told someone sooner, I may have been able to push the deadline back a bit longer. But I didn’t. 

It really is my biggest regret. 

The last game I played in, against the Providence Falconers, was my last game in the NHL. A nine year career isn’t bad, but I expected to go until I was at least pushing thirty-eight. I wanted to play in this league for twenty years. Not nine. 

This last game, I had the worst day of my life since my mother died. I had a coughing fit on the ice, choked and coughed up blood directly onto the fresh sheet of ice underneath me, and had to get lowered to the ground by Zimms just as my legs gave out. And yet, my idiot self decided to play the rest of the game, despite having another coughing fit in the locker room, after a fight with Swoops and Scraps, my two best friends. A fight which they were totally in the right, and I was in the wrong, and felt guilty about it. I told Zimms to come over after the game for some takeout to catch up on things. I’m glad I left my door unlocked, because I was sent so far into a coughing fit that my hands were drenched in blood, and I almost passed out from lack of oxygen, or even worse. Zimms called 911. I apparently lost consciousness in the ambulance, and woke up in the hospital bed that I am currently writing this from. 

_Cystic Fibrosis._

I was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis. The genetic disorder that murdered my mother. The genetic disorder that attacks your lungs by affecting the cells that produce mucus, sweat, and digestive juices to where they become thick and sticky, and attach themselves to your lungs. They block up important ducts and tubes in your lungs and digestive system, and can affect weight loss and gain, weakens the immune system, and ruins the strength of your once-perfect lungs. This is a disorder that rarely anyone survives. Transplants increase life expectancy, but no one really lives to an age older than fifty-five. The oldest person lived to 82, but I fear I will not be that person. 

I pushed my limits a little too far. 

So here I am, Kent Vincent Parson, being open with you hockey fans and the rest of the world about my life for the very first time. 

I suffered quite a lot, and will continue to suffer for a bit, but I will be strong, and I will try to push through this. Your support and concern helps an immense amount.

Thank you, hockey fans, Aces fans, the Aces organization, the National Hockey League, for your motivation, support and love throughout my career. Thank you for being honest and telling me when I could’ve been better, thank you for humbling me, and thank you for reminding me I am loved and when I was doing amazing and was the ‘best player in the league’.

Thank you to Bob and Alicia Zimmermann for housing me during my years in the Q, and for giving me so much advice on how to be a professional and how to be a better man.

Thank you Jack for never giving up on me, for seeing the best in me, and for giving me a second chance at being your friend after a falling out. Thank you for being my brother. Thank you for saving my life. 

Thank you to Scraps for being the best rookie I could’ve asked for during my second year as captain. I may have taught you English, but I’m proud that you went to someone else for help, and now speak it better than I do. I'm proud of how far you’ve come. 

Thank you Swoops, Jeff, Jeffery. My best friend. My brother for life. I love you and appreciate you. You kept me afloat for five years. Thank you for teaching me about life. Thank you for helping me take some of the stress off of my shoulders. Thank you for being the best A that I could’ve ever asked for. Thank you… thank you so much for everything you have ever done for me, or anyone I care about.

Lastly, thank you dad. You have been my biggest fan since I was born. You have devoted your long days and nights to getting me to this point of my life. Nine years in the NHL, eight of them as captain, winning the Art Ross for three of them, the Hart for five, Rocket Richard for three, and the most important, Lord Stanley, for two of them. You have gotten me to this point. Three jobs, twenty-one hours of work a day, six days a week. I don’t know how you did it and still made time for me on the weekends, but you did, and you are my absolute hero. You were my rock when mom died, and still continue to be my rock. I’m sorry I worry you and don’t call you when I should. But thank you for getting me to this point. I hope that you know how much it’s paid off, seeing that you can now retire, not have to worry about money ever again, and know that I have had such a great time in the NHL for these nine years. 

So, here I am, a few pages of awful writing later, Kent Vincent Parson, **_former_ ** Las Vegas Aces captain, number 90, finally getting to the point of this essay. I am retiring because of an unfortunate genetic disorder that I have ignored for the past nine years, and have been completely in the dark about for my twenty-seven years on this earth. This was probably the hardest thing I have ever had to write. 

P.S: I am opening a non-profit foundation, where all of the money goes directly to CF research and the CFF (Cystic Fibrosis Foundation). This will be called the **_Parson CF Initiative_ **, and will also be working with my team to create a website where we can have people sign up to be ambassadors, fundraise, and donate money to further the research for CF, to help find a cure and to save the lives of many. With your help, the Parson CF Initiative can find a cure, allow people to be diagnosed sooner, help people gain easier access to transplants, and to help people with CF live longer, fuller lives. 

**_Thank you Vegas, for everything. Go Aces._ **

**——————————**

Kent is broken. Submitting his essay to The Player’s Tribune was an awful experience. It is a new beginning, and Kent is not looking forward to the rest of his life without hockey. 

His phone is blowing up with phone calls and texts from the team, his friends from around the league, and the Zimmermanns. 

He looks over at his dad, who flew out earlier that day, with wide, teary eyes. 

“I’m officially retired. And dying. Who woulda thunk?” Kent chuckles sadly, the tears that threatened his eyes finally dripping down his cheeks.

His father frowns, looking back at his son, exhausted, stressed, and worried. His expression says it all. “Kenny-cat, you are so strong. Don’t say that you’re dying. You’ll get through this.” He hates hearing his son talk that way, and it is evident. Kent’s father has dealt with too much death in his fifty-two years of living. 

“I already pushed my lungs to their breaking point, dad, I have no hope of pushing through.” Kent whispers, and his father gets up, and walks out, needing a minute to compose himself. 

Kent isn’t wrong, he is dying, and his body loses a little more life, weight, and vigor by the day. He doesn’t know how long he can go on with these tubes up his nose, and this heaviness in his lungs. 

He creates a bucket list. 

  * _Go on a boat far out into the ocean???_



  * _See a shark in person??_


  * Travel to Alaska, just for shits and gigs


  * Stand directly on the equator so that I can say I was in two hemispheres at once. 


  * Piss in all of the oceans


  * Lick Marchand so he knows how it feels


  * Try an edible or six so I can go out fucked up


  * Get my dad a dog or three


  * Call up Seggy so that he can teach my dad how to take care of a dog or three 


  * Give Kit to Swoops


  * Pamper my princess during my last few weeks


  * Live up to my 28th birthday


  * Live past my 28th birthday


  * Live to 29.


  * Fall in love again


  * Marry them 


  * Get married in Vegas with Elvis (not to Elvis, but have him there, yknow?)



It’s a long bucket list, and probably a reach to do any of those, but damn can he try. 

And he will. 

Swoops and Scraps burst into his hospital room past visiting hours later that week, when his essay for The Players Tribune was officially released.

Tear tracks can be seen down both of their cheeks, and Kent knows that this won’t be an angry talk, or a happy one either.

“Fuck, Parse.” Swoops sniffles, grabbing him in a tight hug. “What the fuck? I’m so sorry man, I’m so sorry.”

“Why? You were right. I should’ve confided in you. You’re my best friend, my platonic soulmate, man, I should've told you how I was feeling. It wasn’t right of me. I regret that.” Kent admits, and hugs his best friend back, as tightly as he could, which was fairly weak. 

A sniffle can be heard across the room. Swoops turns around and Kent lifts his head up to see Scraps leaning against the wall by the door like his life depends on it, his head in his hands, crying almost hysterically. Kent’s heart drops to his ass. _His_ rookie. Another one of his best friends. Crying over him. Kent doesn’t know if he can handle the tears from the both of them.

“Scrappy… come… come here man, I need you to come here.” Kent chokes out, trying not to cry himself. 

They both end up embracing Kent, and having a slightly uncomfortable group snuggle, that was one hundred percent worth it.   
  
That is how Kent’s father finds them when he comes back to the hospital after taking care of Kit.

The team filters in and out of his hospital room throughout the next two weeks, spending as much time as they could with their captain.

“Swoops should be my replacement, y’know?” Kent brings it up to management, and just leaves it at that. No room for argument, though it seemed like no one even wanted to. 

Kent is sent home two weeks after his essay is released to the public. He has an oxygen tank due to medical necessity, and is ordered to not work out. He keeps in contact with fans over Twitter and Instagram, uploading videos of Kit as he is making it his duty to baby her. At the same time, he stays out of the public eye to his best ability, not leaving his house, his father and Swoops doing most of his shopping, and making sure they keep him safe.

The playoffs loop around, and Kent attends some of the games for motivation, and to witness hockey as much as he can. The Aces battle their hearts out, the rookies looking fantastic, and Pokes standing on his head. They destroy San Jose in the first round, battle hard and win against St. Louis in the second round, and win it in 7 against Vancouver in the Western Conference Finals. His team makes it to the Stanley Cup Final. 

Kent doesn’t, and instead gets laid to rest with a third Stanley Cup ring in his collection. 

There was an engraving on the ring that said:

_We did this for you. Thank you always, Captain. #90_

**_ FIN _ **

**Author's Note:**

> I was extremely sad when I wrote this. 
> 
> Do not, I repeat, do NOT take any medical advice I have written here. All my information came from WebMD and The Mayo Clinic. I didn’t do any completely intensive research, but I made sure that the description of cystic fibrosis was as accurate as possible. Also remember that this is fiction and not reality, and is slightly exaggerated. 
> 
> If anyone here knows more about it than I do, has CF, or knows someone who does, please feel free to comment any corrections I can make to this to make it as realistic as possible. The last thing I want to do is offend someone or hurt someone who has CF. I wanted to bring attention to this awful illness, and hope that everyone knows that the CFF is real, and if you could take the time out of your day to look into it, that would be awesome! 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed. So sorry it’s hella sad :(


End file.
